


Hands

by A_girl_must_have_a_name



Series: Arya Stark Drabbles [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 01:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13693872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_girl_must_have_a_name/pseuds/A_girl_must_have_a_name
Summary: a series of works focused on Arya Stark





	Hands

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys so I decided to start posting some of my works from Tumblr here! I hope you enjoy them and can't wait to write more!

“You can always tell a noble from common folk by the look of their hands.” Jory joke as he placed his hand in front of Arya’s face. Arya never one to shy away pulled his hand down lower and placed her hand next to his, looking long and hard for a tell tale sign that they were different. Arya’s where small and dirty, grime just under the nail from that morning when she was picking flowers for her father. Somewhere in the back of her mind there was a warning that Septa Mordane’s anger over this would result in a hard scrub but at that moment Arya did not care. Instead she was focused on finding clues. Obviously his hand was bigger than her own but other than that she couldn’t really tell the difference between hers and Jory’s hand. When she mentioned this to him he just laughed before he bent down and ruffled her hair.

“I’m glad you think so little lady” Jory then stood back up and continued on his way leaving Arya to contemplate his words and with a new hobby gained. 

Her father’s hands were the first pair she'd ever really studied. His was the hand she always held after all. His hand were strong and squared Stark hands no doubt. They were weathered from the years and from the cold. She watched his hands carefully and saw that there was a steadiness to them. His steadiness was a testament to his strength, she had never seen her father not look strong. Even with his injury her father moved with the kind of sureness men would follow. He used his hands with careful consideration. Consideration that left her father making slow deliberate hand movements. Arya had watched enough to know that the slowness was out of self control. She had seen times when her father’s hands moved in such a speed she had trouble catching it. Whether he was inspecting weapons Rodrik had, had smithed for him. Or whether it was catching one of his children as they tripped or were running away from a punishment. Laughing at his children’s astonishment when caught he would place them back down and give them a knowing grin before letting them go play once more. Yes, in those moments Arya could see the great legend her father was, the man that was able to best Ser Arthur Dayne. But then her father would stand back up and resume whatever he was doing before the interruption his hands just as calm and steady as before. When Arya held onto one of his hands she felt secure. His hold was strong and firm, and Arya never worried for a moment he would let her go. 

Her mother’s hand were gentle and soft . Arya could still feel her mother cupping her face to inspect for bruises or scrapes whenever Arya would come home late after escaping a lesson. After deeming her unharmed and safe she would then take Arya’s hand in hers and lead Arya out of the room. Her grip unrelenting as she took Arya to apologize to Septa Mordane or to go to bed without supper. But her hands were also hands that consoled. As Arya tearfully said goodbye to her mother, unknowingly for the last time. Her mother pulled away from a fierce hug to lift Arya’s face up towards her own. Arya felt the the gentleness and care of her mother's hand on her cheek and knew no other hand would ever possess quite the same strength and love as her mother’s hands did. 

Rob’s hands were young. His hands were energetic. Arya could not remember a time Rob wasn’t fiddling. Whether he was reaching for another arrow, practicing his swordplay, brushing his horse or Grey Wind. Even sitting still Robb always had to do something with his hands. Countless times Arya watched as he strummed his finger along the table when her was forced to his own lessons or was sitting with their father listen to their people's needs. Robs hand, while not delicate did have the slenderness to them that most of her siblings had. But there were rough patches forming on his hands from all of his training. Rob was learning from their father. He was learning to become a northern lord. He would not have some southern lord hands, soft and unmarred from a life of ease and no consequence. No, Arya could imagine his hands growing to be just as weathered and strong as fathers. 

Jon’s hands were special, while they looked more like fathers in size Jon’s hands were uniquely his own. He had hands that were rougher than any of his siblings hands and it was just one more difference that separates him from them. Yet,Jon took pride in himself. He trained harder and longer than his brother’s did. Because Jon used his hands differently than Rob would ever have to. Jon took on jobs and responsibilities that his true born siblings would never think of doing and in doing so he used his hands to make a name for himself. His own name if he couldn’t be a Stark. Arya could remember watching him and his hand movements from time to time and when she was alone she would try to copy them. She wanted to be closer to her beloved brother, wanted to show him that he too had someone else just like him. And when it wouldn’t work she would grow frustrated. Jon once asked her why she seemed so upset after grabbing his hand suddenly and comparing it to her own and when she told him he wrapped his arms around her his hands holding her in place. She could hear the affection that he only used for her in his voice as he told her her she never had to worry, that they would always be close no matter what. Arya knew Jon’s hands, Jon’s hands comforted even when he was in pain he still reached out to comfort. And as Jon prepared for his new life in the Night’s Watch Arya knew without a doubt Jon’s hands would protect.

Her mother’s and Sansa’s hands were almost identical, delicate and slim, they both had beautifully long fingers that Arya knew she would never possess. They had graceful hands hands that made anything they did look easy.

Sansa’s hands were skilled. Whenever she danced, or played an instrument, or even when she worked on her stitches her hands moved like an artist. (whereas when Arya danced her hands looked awkward. Her fingers too harsh on the instruments, and fingers bloody from pinpricks) Sansa’s hands were the hands of a princess, hands made to be kissed by knights and princes. Sansa’s hands were always perfect like herself. Nails kept and clean and hands soft to the touch. Many days Arya would gaze at Sansa’s before glaring back at her own chipped and dirty. But there were times Sansa’s hands weren’t so clean and proper. Sometimes Arya watched on in disbelief as Sansa would distract with one hand and steal a extra lemon cake with the other. Often times coming into her room after supper and producing enough cakes from the inside of her sleeves to leave both girls sick with stomach aches for the rest of the night. Yes, sometimes if Arya stared hard enough she could see the telltale sign of crumbs lingering. But Sansa as if knowing, would flourish her hands in a way to both hide and clean them leaving Arya to question whether she ever saw it at all. 

Bran’s hands were sure. Arya had watched him millions of times as he reached for holes and edges to hold onto as he climbed walls, or found the right branch to pull himself up with. His hands never seemed scratched to her amazement. She was sure that he should have scrapes on his hands from all of his adventures, yet he never did. She once complained to him that he had to have some sort of magic or trick to do that because when she climbed she always ended up with cuts. He laughed and shrugged his shoulders before continuing on with his fun leaving Arya to stare up at him in both annoyance and awe. But Arya also knew that the pads of his fingers were thick with calluses. He had built up callouses from climbing but she also knew it was from all of the writing Bran did. Bran had such elegant script that even Sansa looked on with envy. Bran loved knowledge and Arya knew his hands callused and smudged with ink would conquer the world in their own strange way. She believed it even more after his fall. His calluses from climbing would fade away but the calluses from his quill would stay and those would be the ones that mattered. 

Rickon’s hands were innocent, they were babes hands. They were soft and small, they were new and uncoordinated however they were curious. Arya would smile as she watched her brother pull and grab at anything that caught his eyes. Most of the time it was her mother's hair. As rickon was growing up his tiny hands reached out eagerly for companionship wanting to cling onto his family and show them his finding. Rickon would grow up to be mischievous she had heard. While she happily agreed, excited at the prospect of having a companion who would follow her lead she knew that Rickons hands would seek out new experiences and would grab at opportunities Arya could only dream about.


End file.
